


So Where Do We Go From Here?

by softnotlizzie



Series: Tommy's Interludes [1]
Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Dream Smp, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, It Was Meant To Be, Lmanburg, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Revolution, Up with the retribution, War, ending is not happy or sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:35:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27599671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softnotlizzie/pseuds/softnotlizzie
Summary: Just a bit of Tommy and his own thoughts from the aftermath of the war. I'm sure you MCYT readers are just bathing in works like these right now, so why not add on. I got sad and I feel empty and so I wrote to fill the dread in my soul. There's a lot of Tommy reflecting about what Wil did, Wilbur's death, his continued conflicts with Dream and his followers, and who he can trust. And, of course, the ever-present question: Where the fuck do we go from here?
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity & TommyInnit, Dave | Technoblade & TommyInnit, Eret & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, TommyInnit & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), TommyInnit & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit, all friendly! no romance :)
Series: Tommy's Interludes [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2033278
Comments: 4
Kudos: 100





	So Where Do We Go From Here?

**Author's Note:**

> Like I mentioned, I'm sure there are plenty of these types of pics surfacing all over the internet right now. We're all kind of reeling, myself included. Like my other work, I mostly wrote this to appease my own self, and get the words on paper before they blew up my brain.
> 
> Please head to my Tumblr at softnotlizzie if you want to talk or want to get updates! I also just generally ramble, but sometimes it's funny!

So where do we go from here?

For approximately three hours after absolutely everything went to shit, these were practically the only words Tommy’s mind seemed able to produce. Where the fuck do we go from here?

Schlatt was gone. So there was that. But if they were all honest with themselves, they would be able to admit that he was never a threat to begin with—not on his own, at least. (But no one here was ever honest with themselves.) He’d just gone, pathetically, and now it was like he hadn’t even been there to begin with. Tommy couldn’t even produce enough energy to be angry at him.

Tubbo was president. Tommy had, of course, been offered the job, but for as much as he liked to be angsty and angry about “You’re never gonna be president, Tommy,” he knew that Wil had been right, and he didn’t mind that. Tommy was never gonna be president. He didn’t want it. Presidents weren’t necessarily allowed to start drug cartels, massacre people, and build giant, non-anatomical dicks around the country on the daily. Tommy trusted Tubbo. Of course, he trusted Tubbo (“Tubbo in a box, you remember that?” He remembered.) But Tommy didn’t know how Tubbo would fair when Dream came for them next, and he didn’t really want to find out.

He only had so many people to rely on. He wanted to trust Big Q. He wanted to trust Eret, but at the same time, he wanted him to shrivel up and burn. He wanted to trust Niki, but she hadn’t proven herself, in Tommy’s critical eyes. Then there was Fundy, who was just as much of a traitor as Eret, and for some reason they had accepted Fundy easier. But Fundy had been beaten have to death with a broken glass bottle, and none of L’Manburg had come to his defense, and Tommy had his own introspections to deal with on that matter.

And the rest?

Sam, Ant, Bad, Skeppy, Purpled, Ponk, Techno, Sapnap…they never committed to one side and probably never will. Tommy had done enough trusting and more than enough hurting to rely on them.

Dream? He would always be a threat. No matter how many times Tommy willingly led Dream to Sapnap with the full intention of allowing him to kill the latter, they would never work together. Tommy knew that. Dream knew that.

This wasn’t even to mention George, who, if he bothered to show up, would follow Dream wherever he went. Like a puppy.

There was Philza. But only sometimes. He’d outright abandoned Fundy, despite being his grandfather. He held no solid connection to Tommy or Tubbo, despite their connections with W—with Phil. And Philza was far too close with Techno. He’d been mistaken trusting Techno, and Tommy didn’t plan to spend much time building a relationship with Philza when he could certainly guess how it would turn out. And he had--.

He had--.

Wilbur.

Wilbur was gone. At Philza’s hand. At Wilbur’s request.

He’d pressed the button. Damn him for it. But damn Tommy, because he’d known. He’d seen it coming, of course he had. Wil only did what he’d promised to do all along. None of them had any right to be surprised. 

“You want to know who the traitor was, Tommy?” Dream had asked. And “Wilbur,” he’d said.

He was wrong.  
Wilbur wasn’t the traitor. He never lied. He never made promises he had no intention of keeping. He’d fought for what he believed in. And he believed that L’manburg was better destroyed than in political ruin.

And Tommy knew he should be mad. He should be fuming. Everyone expected him to be. Even Wilbur: “I’d say we’d always have each other, but we won’t, because by the end of today you’ll probably hate me.” Tommy hadn’t missed the way Philza watched him warily from that pit in the side of the mountain. How he’d shifted just slightly in front of Wilbur, who was barely coherent at that point, as though he expected Tommy to hurt him.

And if Philza hadn’t turned on a dime and thrust Wilbur’s own sword directly into his chest, perhaps Tommy would’ve.

He knew they expected him to be angry.

He wanted to be angry.

And he was.

But for all the wrong reasons. He wanted nothing more than to walk right up to Wil and punch him directly in the face. But then he would leave. He would drag Wilbur’s sorry ass back to Pogtopia, tend to his wounds, yell for a bit, and then go. Maybe he’d have even hugged Wilbur.

He didn’t want Wilbur dead. He wanted him here. He wanted to watch Philza tear him to pieces for what he’d done, then take him under his arm and tell him that he still wanted him.

But that would never happen. Because Wilbur had been selfish. He’d dropped a bomb on Tommy and the rest of L’manberg, both literally and figuratively, and then he’d run. Wilbur would never return to help them out of this fucking disaster. He would never tell Tommy which jokes weren’t funny. He would never nudge him gently when Tommy was being too mean to Tubbo. And Tommy wanted that. But he’d never get it again. Wibur was gone.

And so he was left with Tubbo.

Tubbo in a box.

Fucking hell, they were all in a box.

Trapped. Four sides, a top, a bottom. No air. No light. No freedom, and no death either.

If we get no revolution, then we want nothing. We would rather die.

In the end, they’d been given neither, truly.

He remembered himself and Tubbo, on a bench, watching the sunset, Mellohi playing in the background.

Damn; that song didn’t even bring him joy anymore. It only brought him fear, and dread. That someone might take it and run. That someone might leave him with nothing to fight for.

So where did they go from there?

Well, for now, they would rebuild. Tommy knew that. He knew plenty of things, he’d started to realize, but had quickly decided they were things he didn’t want to know.

He knew that he’d go to bed, wherever he could find a spot, tonight. It wouldn’t be “home”, not yet. And then he would wake up—actually he’d probably be quite rudely woken by Tubbo, in an attempt to return to what degree of normalcy they might hope to salvage—and they’d begin gathering fucking dirt blocked to fill in the massive fucking crater in the middle of the fucking world.

God fucking damn it.

That’s the worst part. He knew where they would go from here. But he didn’t want to go forward.

He wanted to go backward. He wanted to return to a time when he wore colors of the revolution, smiling even in the midst of his demise, surrounded by people he trusted. (Why wouldn’t he trust them? It was just Eret and Fundy, after all. Haha. LMAO, as Tubbo might’ve said.) He wanted to go back to when Wilbur was passionate about the cause. He wanted to go back to when the biggest threat they faced was Dream and a set of netherite armor, not 11 and a half stacks of TNT, 8 withers, and an unbeatable sense of complete and utter hopelessness.

For the first time in his life, Tommy wasn’t sure if he’d make it out of this.

He would fucking try, though.

Of fucking course he would.

If not for his own problematic pride, then for Tubbo. And for Juorse. And for Henry. Literally anything that could give him any ounce of motivation.

They all came back to one thing.

Anger.

Anger at Technoblade for killing Tubbo (twice) and Schlatt for ordering it.

Anger at Sapnap for killing his pets. Repeatedly.

Anger at the man whose name he wouldn’t be able to say for a while now.

“Violence is the only universal language.”

You know what? Fine. Tommy could fucking live with that one, Technoblade. You want violence? I’ll give it to you.

Tubbo didn’t want violence, he knew that, but Tubbo was stupid if he thought anything good would survive here without it. Tubbo wasn’t stupid. He’d understand. (Tommy hoped that he would.)

Maybe he’d try being optimistic.

It was a new thing, for fucking sure, but hell, why not?

Sapnap had claimed he wanted a friendship. When this was over. What was “this”? Tommy’s fight with Dream would never be over. So if that was what Sapnap was referring to, then that possibility was fairly fucked.

He didn’t necessarily need to trust Eret and Fundy and Phil in order to use them. Tommy had always been able to exploit plenty of resources from people like Sam and Ant with a pouty face and a promise of British citizenship. Who was to say it wouldn’t work just the same?

He wasn’t kidding anyone.

Tommy knew how it would go. He had plenty of experience to make that determination.

Tomorrow, when Tubbo woke him up, they’d collect dirt and cobblestone (what a lovely block) and fill in all the gaps. In the ground and in their beaten souls. And Dream might come and watch and laugh. Let him. They would rebuild before they focused on retribution. It was not a satisfying ending, but he’d been foolish to assume it ever could’ve been.

Just when he’d said “It was meant to be,” Wilbur had been saying the exact same thing.

And which one of them ended up winning?

Which one of them was somewhere, watching and laughing while Tommy had a fucking existential crisis in the middle of a crater?

Which one of them threw everything away for the drama of it, and ended up getting the better draw?

Which one of them pushed the button?

Chekov’s gun. He remembered. Fuck it all. Tommy would like to use that very gun as he aimed it directly at Wilbur.

So maybe it was never meant to be. Right? Down with the revolution, boys.

Fine, then.

Down with the fucking revolution, if that’s how it had to go.

Up with the retribution.

That was where they go from here.

**Author's Note:**

> In regards to my other work, Whalien, I hadn't written anything and then I just decided to wait until after the war, but there's plenty to work on now, including restructuring the entire story given how today went. Thank you all SO much for the support, though, I'm honestly pretty shocked, but feeling very loved and appreciated here. Hope you enjoyed!
> 
> Edit: OH MY GOD YOU GUYS! Now not only am I reeling from the events of November 16th (a day that will live on in history) but I am absolutely flabbergasted by the response to this! I've taken to calling it Tommy's Interlude, and I am so touched by everything, especially those of you who commented. Someone said I made them cry! Not to be a sadist, but isn't this everyone's goal as a writer? Anyway, I just want to say thank you and I hope you stick around for some future endeavors!


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